


Five Fights

by out_there



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 5 Things, M/M, POV Mycroft Holmes, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-03
Updated: 2018-05-03
Packaged: 2019-05-01 21:11:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14529276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/out_there/pseuds/out_there
Summary: No relationship is perfect. Or: five times Greg and Mycroft argued.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by DuchessCloverly’s gif set of Mystrade fights here: http://duchesscloverly.tumblr.com/post/46650808872/mystrade-fights-no-relationships-are-perfect
> 
> Thanks to Tehomet for an incredibly speedy beta!

“You can't do that, Mycroft.” Gregory's voice is loud enough to carry. He stands in the doorway of Mycroft's bland office at the Ministry of Transport, hands tense but fingers spread wide in frustration. He grits his teeth and sucks in a breath, and then closes the door quietly behind him.

Mycroft can read the anger in the set of his shoulders, the quicker breaths and upright posture. He can also see that Gregory threw his coat on in a hurry, that his mobile has been shoved into his right pocket, that Gregory came here as quickly as he could.

Not the reaction Mycroft had expected, honestly. “Gregory--”

“No.” Gregory cuts him off with a sharp wave of his hand. He strides halfway across the room but doesn’t come any closer. “You don't get to do that. You don't get to just decide what's best for me and expect me to toe the line.”

“Gregory--”

“You don't get to declare this is over, and you certainly don't do it by text message.” Glaring, Gregory folds his arms across his chest, hands caught tightly. He's still angry but it's a defensive stance; proof that this was both infuriating and hurtful. “I deserve more than that.”

Mycroft truly regrets spending time with Sherlock this afternoon. This wouldn’t have happened if he hadn't visited Baker Street, if he hadn't watched Sherlock and Watson in their easy domesticity, in their shared glances and fond smiles; if he had ignored his own jealousy instead of bitterly telling himself it was foolish to want something as prosaic as romantic bliss. If he hadn't let himself consider all the ways this fledgling relationship was bound to fail, he wouldn't have sent that text to Gregory. “Gregory--”

“I deserve honesty if nothing else. If you don't want to see me anymore then say so. Call me up or tell me to my face. Don't send a text. ‘ _It's best if we stop seeing each other_?’ Just--” Gregory takes a breath, brows drawn and anger fading into vulnerability, fearing what Mycroft will say. “Be honest, yeah?”

Mycroft takes a good look at Gregory Lestrade: this man who wears his emotions on both sleeves. Who laughs when he's amused and shows when he's angry. Who can't help but stare when he's attracted to someone, or let his eyes glaze over when bored in departmental meetings. A man who has been nothing but honest with Mycroft, from letting his nerves show the first time they got a drink together to enthusiastically showing Mycroft his bedroom.

Yet Mycroft convinced himself this relationship was doomed. Told himself that he had always been unreliable at reading emotional cues, and interpersonal relationships have never been a strength, and Gregory had probably already recognised this ridiculous attempt as a failure. He'd convinced himself that Gregory must have seen this coming, that it would be a relief to him to have it finished cleanly.

Gregory's still watching him, waiting for a reply. He did ask for honesty. “I was wrong,” Mycroft says.

Gregory's handsome face crumples in surprise. “What?”

“I was wrong. I shouldn't have sent that text message.” It's the wrong thing to say; Gregory's face shutters in disappointment as he looks away. “Honestly? I let my insecurities get the better of me.”

It occurs to Mycroft that maybe it doesn't matter. Maybe he's ruined this. His own self-fulfilling prophecy. The thought makes him reckless. It makes him honest.

“I am terrible at this. Dealing with people. Give me economies, give me a crisis and it's a carnival show. I can keep every plate spinning and no one sees how.” Confessing this feels like standing on a teetering ledge, looking down at the ground below: exhilarating and terrifying in equal measure. “I am capable of keeping the nation's nightmares at bay, but people? It's easier not to try. It only ends badly. Yet I'm trying. Because you're…”

Mycroft rubs a hand across his eyes, humiliated by his own lack of eloquence. It doesn't matter which language he's speaking, he still wouldn't have the words. He can't quantify how easy it can be to spend time with Gregory or articulate why he looks forward to Friday night when he knows they'll share it. It's not something countable like how many bones Gregory's broken or the number of dark eyelashes that fan across Gregory's cheeks when he sleeps.

It's not something he can dissect into reliable little facts. It's something he wants with no justification or support.

There are footsteps coming closer. A hand over his, pulling it away from his face. When he looks into Gregory's warm brown eyes, the anger has melted into something much kinder.

“I am sorry,” Mycroft says, knowing he should have said it earlier. He glances at Gregory's hand wrapped around his cold fingers. It's such a simple gesture of comfort. It's not something Mycroft would ever consider doing. He sighs, wondering if some things are inevitable. “I don't want to end this but after today, I think you'd be quite justified to do so.”

“I'm not going anywhere. Today proves that,” Gregory adds with a small smile. He gives Mycroft's fingers a quick squeeze. “We can be terrible at this together.”

“You're far from terrible at this.”

“Give me a chance. I'm sure I could be terrible if I tried,” Gregory says and it's so ridiculous Mycroft feels himself smile.


	2. Chapter 2

It has been a long day, only made longer by the stubborn, short-sighted simpletons Mycroft has to manage. His job would be far easier if people could be removed from the equation. 

His mood hasn't been helped by Gregory's tardiness tonight, either. They arranged to meet at the Diogenes at seven, exactly, and now it's twenty-five minutes past and no word from Gregory.

Mycroft tugs on his pocket watch but resists the urge to check the time again. He could pace around the Stranger's Room, but that will not force Gregory to appear either. It's more productive to sit with his phone and reply to emails.

It also has the added bonus of an easily seen clock, so he knows that Gregory is thirty-eight minutes late when he finally arrives.

“So glad you could make it,” Mycroft says pointedly as Gregory closes the door behind him.

“Don't start with me,” Gregory says, pointing a finger rudely at Mycroft. His shirt is rumpled, the top two buttons hastily pulled open. Straight from the office after an equally long day, Mycroft surmises. “I nearly didn't come at all.”

Mycroft locks his phone and slides it into his jacket pocket. “Should I be grateful that you only showed up late instead?” It has been a long day and he does not have the patience to indulge amateur dramatics. “Be civil or leave.”

Gregory stares at him, jaw working silently as he paces over to the alcohol tray, and then thinks better of it. He strides back without a glass in his hand. “Me? Be civil? After you had my case pulled?”

“I did try to discuss it with you.”

“You called me this morning to tell me to drop the investigation,” Gregory bites back, “and by this evening, MI5 is quoting anti-terrorism concerns and walking away with my case.”

Mycroft frowns at him, starting to become rather irritated. “Because you wouldn't cooperate.”

“Is that how it is? I'm, what? Your pet copper on call? You tell me to jump and I ask how high?”

“I asked you to do a simple task--”

“Let a murderer go free, you mean?”

“And how diligently have you investigated the murder of Jeff Hope, the cab driver who tried to poison my brother?” Mycroft asks and has the satisfaction of seeing Gregory pull himself up, the colour drain from his face in horrified surprise. “Have you extensively questioned John Watson, since he was at the scene and walked away with the murder weapon tucked behind his right hip?”

Gregory sits down heavily in the other chair. “You knew?”

“It was obvious. As were your reasons for letting it sit in your intray and be buried under the rest of your workload.” Mycroft leans forward, his legs crossed in front of him. “I was hardly asking you to do something new.”

“That's not---” and “I don't,” Gregory says before finally settling on, “I don't make a habit of it.”

“And I don't make a habit of involving MI5,” Mycroft replies sharply.

“So, what? It wasn't personal?”

“Of course it was personal. I had to call in favours to have the case reassigned. I had to waste my time justifying the importance of leaving that man where he is until his cousin contacts him again.” Honestly, if anyone should be annoyed by the events of today, it's Mycroft. “All because you would not co-operate.”

Gregory leans forward, arms wide and gesturing. “Just because we're sleeping together doesn't mean you can call me out of the blue and--”

“And yet it does mean that I couldn't simply call the superintendent and inform him of your unaccommodating attitude. Or have Standards and Practices get involved, delaying your current investigations until this situation is resolved.” Either option would have been more efficient and wasted less of Mycroft's day, yet he hadn't because it was Gregory. Because Mycroft didn't want to negatively impact Gregory's career, to leave him with something to explain on his next performance review. “I am not in the habit of having to rearrange half my day to ensure the Met complies.”

The silence between them is anything but comfortable. Mycroft averts his gaze to the wainscoting along the far wall, noting scuff marks from clumsy feet, a scratch from a dropped silver tray, the well polished shine near the doorway, where staff assume members will notice. It's a simple distraction, a way to get a little distance from this conversation until they both calm down.

It's Gregory who breaks the uneasy standoff. Who cautiously clears his throat and says, “Maybe you could have told me why?”

“Contravene the Official Secrets Act? On your phone?”

“What's wrong with my phone? It's standard issue,” Gregory argues and then stops himself. In a milder tone, he adds, “Okay, fine, yours is more secure, I'm sure. But I don't like some high and mighty call telling me to look the other way. You're not the first posh civil servant to try it.”

“And what do you suggest?”

“I don't know. Maybe a code word? Something so I know it's important even if you can't tell me why.”

“It's always important, Gregory.” 

Gregory gives him a disbelieving look, chin tilted down and both brows high. It makes him look like a disapproving school teacher.

“Think about it, Gregory. I have only asked you for favours concerning Sherlock's health or national security. I wouldn't involve you on a whim.”

Mycroft lowers his gaze to the carpet as Gregory thinks it through. He could watch Gregory's expressive face, track the thoughts and realisations but the least he can allow Gregory is a small amount of privacy. This situation will happen again and Gregory needs to accept that on his own terms.

It takes an interminably long time. Nearly four minutes.

“So I got bent out of shape over you doing your job the best way you could.” Gregory sighs and Mycroft glances over to catch his wry grimace. “Makes me a bit of a pillock, doesn't it?”

“It makes you human,” Mycroft replies gently. “Someone who deeply cares about doing their job well.”


	3. Chapter 3

Mycroft watches the black car pull out into traffic. He allows himself a moment to watch it drive away, before taking a slow breath and then wheeling his suitcase up to his front door.

He never particularly valued his own youth, but he misses it now. Jetlag has not become easier to bear in middle age. He dreads how terrible he'll find it in ten or twenty years. If only telecommuting was more secure… 

He realises he's been staring at his keys for the last fifteen seconds. Frowning, he unlocks his door. He's already planning his next few actions: unpack, have a hot shower, deal with a few persistent emails, call Gregory and then sleep. At this second, sleep is the most appealing item on that list.

He freezes in the corridor, hearing noise from the living room. Some disastrous attempt at music: drums and guitars played with more enthusiasm than skill.

He leaves the suitcase tucked against the stairway, and follows the offensive noise. On the way, he walks past a radiator covered in someone else's socks and the open kitchen door. There is a stack of dirty dishes, pots all over the far counter and crumbs on every surface.

Mycroft rubs at his forehead, but it doesn't ease the growing headache.

The trail of crumbs leads out to the living room, crisps eaten on the sofa, empty packets left on Mycroft's coffee table. And stretched out across the sofa, reading a ridiculous Western novel (cowboy on the cover, spine folded, edge of a library barcode under those familiar fingers) is Gregory. His bare feet are hanging off the end of Mycroft's brown leather sofa and he's got a handful of crisps balanced on the middle of his chest, salt and grease marking the centre of the faded black T-shirt.

He doesn't look up until Mycroft strides over and turns off that horrible pretense at music.

“Hey!” Gregory says happily, sitting up and spilling crisps further. “You're back early. I thought you'd be gone another two days.”

“Obviously,” Mycroft says, glancing pointedly at the mess on his coffee table. When he turns his attention to the dining table, there's a selection of damp shirts and trousers hung over the chairs. “Given the age of the French polish on those chairs, I'd prefer you didn't use them to dry your laundry.”

“Oh, I'll move them,” Gregory says,getting up. “I'm only here because--”

“You decided it would be more convenient to use your spare key to my house than go to a launderette.”

“A water mains burst. My whole building won't have running water until tomorrow. I didn't think you'd mind.”

“Why would I mind a trail of crumbs leading from my kitchen?” Mycroft asks sharply. “Or to find your clothes hung around as if they were tinsel?”

“I was going to tidy up before you got back,” Gregory says, sounding less apologetic with every word.

“Given that you used my washing machine, I'm at a complete loss as to why you found operating a dryer beyond your capabilities.”

“It made a weird clunking noise,” Gregory bites back. “I didn't want to break something.”

“Then maybe you should have gone to a launderette,” Mycroft snarls back, aware that this is an absurd argument to have with someone he's spent the last week rather missing. But he is tired and sore, and his house was supposed to be quiet and empty, orderly and clean. Not full of wet washing and the remnants of junk food he doesn't even keep in his kitchen.

“Next time I will!”

“Good!”

“Fine, then!” Gregory stalks around the table, snatching up shirts and bundling them together. They're bound to wrinkle and Mycroft doesn't even know where the nearest launderette is from here.

Yesterday, Mycroft had been so weary of dealing with strangers that he'd worked through most of the night to return as quickly as possible. Getting to see Gregory sooner seemed worth the lack of sleep. 

He’d missed Gregory with a curiously sharp ache, and now they’re squabbling like bad tempered children. 

“There's a screw loose in the bracket,” Mycroft says sullenly. “Top left corner. That's the cause of the noise. It's operational, it's just loud.”

Gregory stops. Turns to stare at him with an armful of damp cotton. “Well, I didn't know that.”

“Now you do.” Mycroft sighs, squeezing his eyes closed. “You might as well put those in the dryer.”

“Ta,” Gregory mumbles, heading out to the utility room.

Mycroft has another glance around the room. Maybe the mess isn't as dire as it first appeared. It's certainly tidier than Sherlock's flat, although that is setting the bar abysmally low. Gregory tends to keep his own flat clean, if a little untidy. He probably would have cleaned before Mycroft got home.

Gregory pauses in the doorway, a truce of sorts. “Are you really mad that I came here?”

“No.” Honestly, Mycroft rather likes the idea that in times of need, Gregory felt comfortable staying here. “But I've spent a week of dealing with other people's mess and noise, and I hadn't expected to come home to it.”

Gregory grins and pushes himself off the door frame. “Well, I'm glad you're back. I missed you.”

“You did?”

“Course I did. It's half the reason I came here,” Gregory says, stepping close and wrapping a hand around the back of Mycroft's neck. Just the warmth of his fingers feels good against Mycroft's tense muscles. “My flat felt empty without you. At least here I can just pretend you're in your study. Not counting overtime and night shifts, that's the first time we've slept apart in a month.”

“You make it sound as if we're living together.”

“We pretty much are. When was the last time you went back to your _London flat_?” Gregory always says it like that, as if having a flat close to work and a house in the country is somehow remarkable. “Certainly not to cook.”

“Your hatred of my kitchen has been previously noted.”

“You might as well move in and make it official.” Gregory presses a kiss to Mycroft's cheek and lingers there. “Then you wouldn't be surprised that I'm waiting for you when you get back into the country.”

As logical as it sounds, it's uncharted waters. Not something any previous lover -- nor Mycroft himself -- has wanted. But he can't deny that he's spent the last week thinking of Gregory in his serviceable double bed and wishing he was there as well. And Gregory is right: he hasn’t returned to his own flat in weeks. “I'll consider it when I've had more than four hours sleep.”

“Very sensible. Why don't you head up to bed and I'll bring you up a camomile tea?” Gregory offers, stealing a quick kiss before he pulls back. “And when you wake up, the house will be clean again. Promise.”


	4. Chapter 4

It's not so much a fight as an ongoing difference of opinions. Gregory thinks attending a Christmas pantomime with Mycroft's parents ‘could be fun’. Mycroft knows it will be an excruciating event, the eighth circle of hell. He has withstood bomb threats and an entire twenty minutes of small talk with the current American president, and this will be worse.

Not that Gregory believes him. He explains the typical acting talent (abysmal) and the utter lack of artistic talent, and Gregory only shrugs and says, “It's a panto by a local amateur dramatics group. It'll be a little rough, but it'll be fun.”

Mycroft explains the amount of travel involved (one of the benefits of his house is that it is _not_ an easy drive to his parents’ place) and Gregory just says, “We could make a weekend of it. Find a Bed and Breakfast close by.”

Mycroft makes it very clear that he has no intention of attending, yet Gregory spends nearly a week bringing the subject up and trying to make it sound enjoyable. He even mentions that Sherlock and John will bring Rosie -- providing a burst of schadenfreude to Mycroft -- and shares a story of once going to a pantomime as a child. Gregory is charming and teasing, but Mycroft is well practiced at telling people no for their own good.

Unexpectedly, Gregory stops trying to cajole Mycroft into changing his mind. It comes at the end of a bad day, a day that leaves Gregory white knuckled and hollow eyed, a case involving small kids and cruel violence. Mycroft never knows the right thing to say on a night like this. There's no way to stop Gregory caring even when it weighs heavily on his shoulders, and a minor quibble over a tickets is the last thing on Mycroft's mind.

He assumes Gregory's seen sense, until Sherlock gives him a pair of tickets to the damn performance. “Since you'll be going,” Sherlock says smugly, “you should be in the same row as the rest of us.”

It's an odd statement, made stranger by Sherlock's certainty. “I'm not going,” Mycroft replies.

“Of course you are.”

“No, I'm not.”

“Really? You'd let--” Sherlock snaps his mouth shut, peering closely at Mycroft's cuff (cinnamon sugar smeared from Gregory's donut, Gregory's thumb catching there when he kissed Mycroft goodbye). “Oh.”

As a child, that tone meant he'd spilled hydrochloric acid on the rug or eaten the last Jaffa cake that should have been Mycroft’s. “What have you done, brother mine?”

“I may have made a slight miscalculation,” Sherlock says. When he explains what he did, it’s a feat of personal control that Mycroft doesn't throttle his younger brother. Instead, he calls Gregory immediately, taking the stairs quickly.

“Hey, you,” Gregory says, proving that he has time to spare today and is happy to hear from Mycroft. “Good timing. I got out of court early.”

“Stay there,” Mycroft says, getting into the car. “I'll give you a lift back to Scotland Yard.”

“Do you have time for lunch?” Gregory asks hopefully.

“Yes,” Mycroft lies. He has his assistant cancel and reschedule his next few hours and stops at Gregory's favourite kebab shop on the way. Gregory is reassuringly steady in his meal preferences so it's easy to know what he'd enjoy: lamb kebab, lots of garlic sauce, tabbouleh, lettuce and tomato, no onion. Mycroft orders the same for himself because it's easier than making an actual choice.

When Gregory climbs into the back seat, he takes a deep breath and then spots the familiar bag sitting beside Mycroft. “Just what I wanted.” He pulls his tie off and shoves it in his jacket pocket. He frees the top two buttons of his shirt and then reaches into the bag.

Mycroft could mention the cold chill in the air that makes Gregory crave hot food or how tiring he finds attending court and how that shows in his meal choices. Instead he says, “I got extra serviettes. Try not to spill anything on the seat.”

They mostly eat in silence: Gregory too hungry to initiate conversation and Mycroft wise enough to know this conversation will be easier on sated stomachs.

“I visited Sherlock this morning,” Mycroft says as Gregory finishes by licking a stray smear of sauce from his fingers. His sucks his thumb into his mouth, mindless of how he looks, and turns his attention to the last of his kebab.“He said he spoke to you about the pantomime.”

“Explained your reasoning, more like.” 

There’s something wry and sharp in Gregory’s tone but Mycroft can’t read it clearly. “You realise his motivation was--”

“I’ve given up on understanding Sherlock’s motivation,” Gregory interrupts with a small wave of his hand. “He might have been trying to be helpful, he might have been trying to cause trouble, but most likely he didn’t consider anyone else’s feelings and was just saying it to sound clever.”

The answer is the second, Mycroft knows. Not out of any malicious feelings towards Gregory, but for the outcome. “He assumed you’d be angry about it and that we’d fight.”

Gregory picks at the corner of a nail, distracting himself from the conversation. “My temper’s not that bad.”

“You are passionate,” Mycroft says diplomatically. Gregory is open and honest in his feelings; he shows his love and his joy as clearly as he shows his annoyance. It’s why Sherlock’s little scheme should have worked: there should have been a fight over the pantomine tickets. At some point during it, Mycroft would have realised that Gregory believed Mycroft was ashamed to introduce him to his family, and would have done everything to disprove the false assumption. Up to and including agreeing to attend that dismal performance. Sherlock’s proffered tickets would have been annoying, but he can see how that little manipulation should have worked.

And it would have, except Gregory responded unexpectedly. He dropped the subject completely. Mycroft would like to think Gregory knows him well enough to see the deception for what it is, but there’s tension across Gregory’s temples and in the corner of his jaw.

“Professional musical theatre is a horrendous spectacle. An amatuer production makes a horrible thing even worse,” Mycroft explains. “My desire to avoid it has nothing to do with family expectations.”

“It’s fine,” Gregory says, but his smile is tight and forced. “We don’t have to fight about this.”

“Why not?”

“Because there’s no good way that argument ends, okay? I badger you into taking me and then spend the night watching for sly digs. Or I agree to let you off the hook and say it doesn’t matter, that it’s fine if I never meet your family.” Gregory rubs a hand through his hair, hunching his shoulders forward as if he could hide away. “It’s not as if I don’t get it. I grew up in a place that would fit inside your house four times over. I went to a local comprehensive, not Eton. UNL, not Oxford. After taxes, my family inheritance might cover a new car, maybe. I know all that, but right now, I’m happy. Happier than I’ve been years. I wasn’t ready for…”

“For what?”

“I want us to have a life together. I don’t want to be at the side of your life, only acceptable at certain places. And you can’t say that out loud and then ignore it,” Gregory says, head hanging in defeat, “so I was trying not to have this fight yet.”

“Then before we have this fight, there are some pertinent facts you should be aware of. Firstly,” Mycroft says, holding up a finger, “my younger brother is selfish, immature and manipulative. He wanted us to fight so I would force myself to attend in order to reassure you. Secondly, it was a complete fabrication and Sherlock will attest to it. I would never be ashamed of something as ridiculous as hereditary finances and childhood education. Please believe me, Eton and Oxford are no guarantee of intelligence. I speak from daily experience.”

Gregory doesn’t look up, but he does smile. Mycroft counts that as a victory.

“Thirdly,” Mycroft adds, “I truly, utterly and with all of my shrivelled heart detest musical theatre. But if that’s what it takes to prove how I feel for you, I am willing to attend.”

“You are?”

“I even have the tickets,” Mycroft says, pulling them out of his pocket and handing them to Gregory. “Sherlock wanted to ensure we’d be sitting in the same row.”

“You’d really hate it?” Gregory asks quietly, staring at the cardboard in his hands. He turns them over as if he’s looking for a trick. Given their source, Mycroft can’t entirely blame him. “But you’d go?”

“For you. Only for you.”

Gregory turns them over one more time, and then hands them back. “How about a compromise: a family dinner?”

“Yes,” Mycroft agrees fervently, ripping the tickets in two before Gregory can change his mind.


	5. Chapter 5

Mycroft does not pace. He is not a man who paces. Not when he is nervous and certainly not when he is blindly furious. He may be so angry that he risks cracking a tooth, but he will stand by the car and wait for Gregory.

While the lights around them flash blue and red, the rest of the street is dark. The streetlights must have been damaged by the explosion. Mycroft grinds the tip of his umbrella into the tarmac, as he waits for Gregory to finish talking to the ambulance crew and walk over.

Gregory gives him a hopeful smile from halfway across the police tape before he ducks under and walks straight to Mycroft. He's limping slightly from a twisted ankle, and the smears of ash on his cheek shown that he fell down leaving the building after the explosion.

“Hi, love. I'm okay,” Gregory says, gently reassuring. “You didn't need to come down.”

“What were you thinking?” Mycroft hisses, keeping his voice low but unable to keep it civil. “Rushing after Sherlock like that?”

At least Gregory doesn't lie. He doesn't say they didn't expect the bomb threats were real or hadn't realised the danger they ran headfirst into. “I was thinking Sherlock was going in with or without me, and I could help.”

“By getting yourself blown to kingdom come?”

“By getting the family out of danger,” Gregory objects sharply. He keeps his voice down, trying not to be overheard, although given the sirens and the activity of the crime scene behind him, no one is paying attention to two men talking by a car. “Sherlock found the bomb and the safe room, but you know what he's like with people. Getting them to co-operate quickly made a difference.”

“You are not trained to deal with explosives. There are specific squads to deal with that.”

“I called it in on the way but if we'd waited, that family would be dead.” Gregory raises a hand to rub at his face. There's a red scratch on his inner wrist, a smear of blood mixing with the ash and dust on his cuff. “Since when am I in trouble for protecting Sherlock?”

“Have you seen your car?” Mycroft nods towards it, doesn't trust his hands not to shake if he points. It was the first surveillance they had on the explosion: pictures of a half demolished house, dust still settling, and a grey car parked beside, crushed with fallen debris. Mycroft had left his office before they had confirmation on the number plate, but he'd been certain he'd recognised the scratch on the back bumper.

“Oh,” Gregory says, looking at where half a wall has fallen on the middle of the car, crushing the roof and anything inside. Because he's an eminently practical man, Gregory's shocked reaction is: “That's a work lease. The paperwork will be a nightmare.”

They stare at it for a moment, then Gregory says, “Fuck. No wonder you were upset. But I'm okay.”

“You need to be more careful. You and Sherlock. The loss of one of you would break my heart. Both is unthinkable.” Gregory stares at him. Understandable, given that melodramatic statement. Mycroft sighs. “Be more careful, please.”

Gregory’s still staring, deep brown eyes not looking away from Mycroft. “Marry me.”

Mycroft has excellent hearing. He doesn’t trust it. “I beg your pardon?”

“Marry me, Mycroft.” Gregory starts to smile and Mycroft looks closely at his head, searching for signs of impact. He can’t see any. “You love me as much as you love Sherlock, so why aren’t we married? Give me one good reason.”

“Well,” Mycroft says, stalling as he thinks through the facts. In practical terms, it would make no difference to their current living arrangements. Financially and legally, it would simplify matters. He’s already met Gregory’s brothers and sister; Gregory has survived a Holmes family Christmas. The only drawback would be organising the ceremony, but Mycroft could make May work, a late Spring wedding. They could have Rosie and Gregory’s nieces as flower girls.

“I’m right, aren’t I?” Gregory’s smile is incorrigible.

“You can’t win an argument by proposing,” Mycroft says, stretching up to his full height. He eases his grip on the handle of his umbrella.

“You can, but it only works once.”

“When people ask how you proposed, this story will lack a certain romance.”

“You think?”

“You proposed while we were fighting outside a crime scene.”

“I proposed after a close brush with death made me reconsider my priorities in life,” Gregory corrects playfully. He nudges the tip of Mycroft’s umbrella with his toe. “It’s romantic if you tell it right.”


End file.
